Dr Jolliffes Boys by Lewis Hough

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Title: Dr. Jolliffe's Boys

Author: Lewis Hough

Illustrator: Frank Feller and S. Thurdale

Release Date: April 18, 2007 [EBook #21187]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DR. JOLLIFFE'S BOYS ***

Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

Lewis Hough

"Dr. Jolliffe's Boys"

Chapter One.

A Tale of Weston School.

Weston versus Hillsborough.

“Well cut, Saurin, well cut! Run it out! Four!” The ball was delivered again to the bowler, who
meditated a shooter, but being a little tired, failed in his amiable intention, and gave the chance of a
half-volley, which the batsman timed accurately, and caught on the right inch of the bat, with the
whole swing of his arms and body thrown into the drive, so that the ball went clean into the scorer’s
tent, as if desirous of marking the runs for itself.

“Well hit indeed! Well hit!”

The Westonians roared with delight, and their voices were fresh, for they had had little opportunity of
exercising them hitherto. Crawley, the captain of their eleven, the hero in whom they delighted, had
been declared out, leg before wicket, when he had only contributed five to the score. Only two of the
Westonians believed that the decision was just, Crawley himself, and the youth who had taken his
place, and was now so triumphant. But he hated Crawley, and rejoiced in his discomfiture, even
though it told against his own side, so his opinion went for nothing.

Well, no more did anybody’s else except the umpire’s, who after all is the only person capable of
judging.

“Saurin has got his eye in; we may put together a respectable score yet.”

“He is the best player we have got, when he only takes the trouble; don’t you think so?” said
Edwards, who believed in Saurin with a faith which would have been quite touching if it had not been
so irritating.

“He thinks so himself at any rate,” replied the boy addressed, “and we are a shocking bad lot if he is
right. Anyhow he seems to be in form to-day, and I only hope that it will last.”

The batsman under discussion hoped so too. If he could only make an unprecedented score, restore

the fortunes of the day, and show the world what a mistake it was to think Crawley his superior in
anything whatever, it would be a glorious triumph. He was not of a patriotic disposition, and did not
care for the success of his school except as it might minister to his own personal vanity and gain, for
he had a bet of half-a-crown on his own side. But his egotism was quite strong enough to rival the
public spirit of the others, and raise his interest to the general pitch.

The match between Weston and Hillsborough was an annual affair, and excited great emulation,
being for each school the principal event of the cricketing season. One year it was played at Weston
and the next at Hillsborough, and it was the Westonians’ turn to play on their own ground on this
occasion.

Hillsborough went in first and put together 94 runs. Then Weston went to the wickets and could make
nothing of it. There was a certain left-handed Hillsburian bowler who proved very fatal to them; it was
one of his twists which found Crawley’s leg where his bat should have been. Result, eight wickets
down for twenty, and then Saurin went in and made the 9 we have witnessed.

Between ourselves the cut was a fluke, but the half-volley was a genuine well-played hit, which
deserved the applause it got. The next ball came straight for the middle stump, but was blocked back
half-way between the creases, and another run was stolen.

“Over!”

The new bowler went in for slows. The first, a very tempting ball, Saurin played forward at, and hit it
straight and hard into the hands of long field on, who fumbled and dropped it, amidst groans and
derisive cheers.

Warned by this narrow shave he played back next time, and seemed to himself to have missed a
really good chance. This feeling induced hesitation when the next ball was delivered, and the result of
hesitation was that the insidious missile curled in somehow over his bat and toppled his bails off.
Saurin was so much mortified as he walked back to the tent that he could not even pretend to
assume a jaunty careless air, but scowled and carried his bat as if he would like to hit someone over
the head with it. Which, indeed, he would.

There was one consolation for him, he had made ten, and that proved to be the top score.

For the first time within living memory Weston had to follow its innings!

Now when you consider that the presidents of Oxford and Cambridge Clubs kept an eye on this match
with a view to promising colts, you may imagine the elation of the Hillsburians and the dejection of
the Westonians when Crawley and Robarts walked once more to the wickets. Their schoolmates
clapped their hands vigorously indeed, and some of them talked about the uncertainty of cricket, but
the amount of hope they had would not have taken the room of a pair of socks in Pandora’s box.

But Crawley was a bowler as well as a batsman, and Robarts was the Westonian wicket-keeper, so
that both were somewhat fagged when they first went in, whereas they were now quite fresh. Again,
the Hillsburian bowling champion found his dangerous left arm a little stiff, and his eyesight not so
keen as it had been an hour before. One is bound to find a cause for everything, so these may be the
reasons why the pair, after defending their wickets cautiously for an over or two, began to knock the
bowling about in great style.

“What a jealous brute that Crawley is!” said Saurin, sitting down by Edwards.

“Awful!” replied Edwards, not at all knowing why, but following Saurin blindfold, as he always did.

“I was the only one who made any stand in the first innings, and yet he does not send me in early.
He will keep me to the last, I daresay.”

The wonderful stand spoken of had not lasted two overs, but Edwards only observed:

“It’s mean.”

“Not that I care,” said Saurin.

“Of course not.”

“Only I do hate spite and jealousy.”

“He ought not to be captain.”

“Bah! the soft-spoken humbug; it’s a wonder to me that fellows don’t see through him.”

“It is strange,” echoed the complacent Edwards.

The number 30 went up amidst a storm of clapping, and Saurin relapsed into prudent silence, but he
thought “hapes,” like the Irishman’s dumb parrot. The dinner-bell rang, the pair were not separated,

and the score stood at 50.

“It will be a match yet,” was the general opinion on the Weston side, and their opponents also
thought that the affair did not look quite such a certainty, and agreed that they must not throw a
chance away, though they hoped much from dinner, which sometimes puts a batsman off his play, the
process of digestion inducing, especially in hot weather, a certain heaviness which impairs that
clearness of brain necessary for timing a ball accurately. At the same time the bowlers would get a
good rest, and the left-handed artist, who had been acting as long-stop, might reasonably be
expected to regain his cunning. True that the midday meal tells most upon the field, which very
generally grows sluggish after eating: but the Hillsborough boys fancied that would not matter so
much, if they could only separate those two.

But “those two” had a due sense of their responsibilities, and ate a very moderate meal, which they
washed down with nothing stronger than water. They also played very careful cricket on first going in
again, and risked nothing until they had got their hands in. Item, Crawley had mastered the left-
handed bowler’s favourite ball, and by playing very forward hit it away before it took the dangerous
twist. It looked very risky, and the Hillsborough wicket-keeper was in constant hope of stumping him,
but he never missed, and scored off every ball of that sort which came to him. W hen the same
twisters came to Robarts he played back, contenting himself with simply guarding his wickets with an
upright bat.

Altogether the two put 85 together before Robarts was caught at point.

As they were going in to dinner Crawley had said to Saurin:

“You go in the first wicket down. You showed good form in the first innings, and it was a very unlucky
ball that settled you so soon. But you will have a good chance again presently.” W hich speech had
the unintended effect of making Saurin more exasperated than ever. “Confound his patronising!” he
said to himself; but he could not find any excuse for any audible utterance except the conventional
“All right,” and he now drew on his gloves, took up his bat, and issued from the tent.

“Play careful cricket, Saurin,” said Robarts as he passed him; “the great thing is to keep Crawley at
the wicket as long as we can.”

“A likely story!” he thought to himself as he strode across the turf, “to make myself a mere foil and
stop-gap for that conceited brute! Not I.” Far from practising the abstinence of the other two, he had
eaten as much as he could stuff and drunk all the beer he could get, and this, combined with
resentment at Robarts’ words, caused him to go in for slogging just to show that he was not to be
dictated to.

The first ball he got he hit as hard as he could, and well on to the ground, but it was cleverly stopped
before a run could be made. The second he sent into the hands of the fielder standing at mid-wicket,
who stuck to it, fast as it came, and threw it up amidst the cheers of his friends. Saurin stalked away
with his duck’s egg.

Four more wickets fell before Crawley was run out, by which time he had scored 90 off his own bat,
the total standing at 150. Thirty more was added before the Westonians were all out, and the score
stood—first innings, 40; second, 180; total, 220, against 94. So that Hillsborough now had to make
126 to tie, and 127 to win.

It was a good match; anybody’s game. During the remainder of the afternoon Saurin behaved
disgracefully. His temper had completely mastered him, and he was sulky and careless to an extent
which made even Edwards ashamed for him. He let balls pass with hardly an attempt to stop them,
picked them up and threw them in in a leisurely manner, which gave more than one run to the other
side, and showed such indifference that he was hissed.

For every run was of importance. The fact was that Weston that year was decidedly weak in the
bowling, Crawley being the only one to be depended upon, and he could not be kept at it for ever;
and, though the fielding generally was good, the Hillsburians scored fast. At seven o’clock they were
100 for seven wickets, and the excitement was very great when Crawley, who had had an hour’s
interval, went on once more to bowl.

His first ball was cut for five. His second took the middle stump clean. His third came back into his
hands. His fourth, the nastiest of shooters, glided under the bat into the wicket. Three wickets in
three consecutive balls—something like a sensational over!

The match was over, and Weston had won by 21 runs.

There could be no doubt to whom the victory was due, and Crawley was pounced upon, hoisted, and
carried home in triumph amidst the most enthusiastic cheering.

“All right!” he said, colouring and laughing as they put him down; “I am glad we won, but that last

ball was the most awful fluke I ever made in my life. I lost my balance as I delivered it, and nearly
came down. To tell the truth, I feared it would be wide, and could hardly believe my eyes when I saw
the bails off.”

One would have imagined that Saurin’s evil genius was taking part in the events of the day, and
piling success upon the rival he hated in order to exasperate him to madness. His state of mind,
indeed, was little short of that as he went sullenly to his tutor’s house, with the sight of Crawley,
raised on his comrades’ shoulders, in his eyes, their cheers ringing in his ears, and the thoughts of
Cain in his heart.

“I shall give up cricket,” he said to Edwards next day; “it’s a beastly game.”

“I don’t care for it myself,” replied his friend; “only, what is one to do?”

“Lots of things; you don’t know Slam’s. I tell you what—I’ll take you there.”

“Thank you; that will be very jolly; only don’t you think if one were caught, you know—eh?”

“We should get into a jolly row, no doubt; but there is no fear of being caught. And, as you say, if
one does not play cricket, what is one to do?”

One thing which induced Saurin to relinquish the game which he had at one time practised with some
hope of success, was that he shrewdly suspected that, after what occurred, he would no longer be
retained in the eleven. And he was right, for at the very next meeting of the committee it was
unanimously agreed that a fellow who failed so utterly to keep his temper was of no use at all, even
if he were a much better player than Saurin; and this opinion was intimated to him without any
squeamishness in the choice of terms. Had Weston lost the match his conduct on the occasion might
have resulted in his being sent to Coventry; but success is the parent of magnanimity, and, since his
lack of public spirit had not proved fatal, it was condoned. But it certainly did not increase his
popularity. The whole affair was most unfortunate. Saurin was a disappointing sort of fellow. He was
rather good-looking, and on ordinary occasions his manners were those of a gentleman. His abilities
were certainly above the average, and his eye and hand worked together in a manner which was
calculated to ensure success in all games, especially as he was fleet of foot and muscular. Thus he
was always giving promise of distinguishing himself, and dying away to nothing. The explanation is
that he was very vain and very indolent, and his vanity induced him to engage in different pursuits
which would excite admiration, while his indolence prevented him from persevering long enough for
success. Directly anything bored him he dropped it. Self-indulgence seemed to him the only true
wisdom. He never resisted the whim of the moment except through fear of the consequences, and
unfortunately many of his propensities were vicious.

He had taken up cricket rather warmly, and seemed less inclined to get tired of it than of most
healthy and innocent diversions, and cricket kept him out of mischief; so it was very unlucky both for
himself and for those over whom he had influence that his jealousy of Crawley had led him to make
such an idiot of himself.

Chapter Two.

Slam’s.

About a mile from Weston College there was a dilapidated old house with a large yard and an
orchard. There had been a farm attached to it once, but the land had been taken into the next estate,
and the old homestead let separately many years before. The landlord would gladly have got rid of
the present tenant, but he had a long lease, and, while he paid his rent, he was secure, and could
snap his fingers at the squire, the clergyman, the magistrates, and all other people who did not
appreciate him. Not that he ever did so snap his fingers; on the contrary, Mr Slam, though practically
defiant, was remarkably civil, not to say obsequious, in his demeanour when he came into contact
with the gentry. By profession he was a rat-catcher, and he had an intimate knowledge of the habits
and frailties of all the small predatory animals of Great Britain, and knew well how to lure them to
their destruction. In a game-preserving community such talents ought, one would imagine, to have
met with appreciative recognition; but unfortunately Slam was suspected of being far more fatal to
pheasants, hares, and rabbits than to all the vermin he destroyed. He protested his innocence, and
was never caught in the act of taking game; but if anyone wanted to stock his preserves, Slam could
always procure him a supply of pheasants’ eggs, and more than one village offender who had been
sent to expiate his depredations in jail was known to have paid visits to Slam’s yard.

Slam was a dog-fancier as well as a rat-catcher, and therefore doggy boys were attracted to his
premises, which, however, were sternly interdicted. In the first place they were out of bounds, though
this of itself did not go for very much. There was no town very near Weston, and so long as the boys
made their appearance at the specified hours they were not overmuch interfered with. Paper chases,
or hare and hounds as they are sometimes called, were openly arranged and encouraged; and if boys
liked to take walks in the country, they could do so with a minimum of risk. If they were awkward
enough to meet a master face to face when out of bounds, he could hardly help turning them back

and giving them a slight imposition; but if they saw him coming, and got out of his way, he would not
look in their direction.

But to enter an inn, or to visit Slam’s, was a serious offence, entailing severe punishment, and even
expulsion, if repeated.

Yet one beautiful warm summer’s evening, when the birds were singing and the grasshoppers
chirruping, and all nature invited mankind to play cricket or lawn-tennis, if there were no river handy
for boating, four youths might have been seen (but were not, luckily for them) approaching the
forbidden establishment. A lane with high banks, now covered with ferns and wild flowers, and
furrowed with ruts which were more like crevasses, ran up to the house; but they left this and went
round the orchard to the back of the yard, in the wall of which there was a little door with a bell-
handle beside it. On this being pulled there was a faint tinkle, followed by a canine uproar of the
most miscellaneous description, the deep-mouthed bay of the blood-hound, the sharp yap-yap of the
toy terrier, and a chorus of intermediate undistinguishable barkings, some fierce, some frolicsome,
some expectant, being mixed up with the rattling of chains. Then an angry voice was heard amidst
the hubbub commanding silence, and a sudden whine or two seemed to imply that he had shown
some practical intention of being obeyed. A bolt was drawn, the door opened, and a short wiry man,
dressed in fustian and velveteen, with a fur cap on his head and a short pipe in his mouth, stood
before them.

“Come in, gents,” said he. “Your dawg’s at the other end of the yard, Mr Stubbs, that’s why you don’t
see him. He’s had an orkardness with Sayres, Mr Robarts’ dog, as was in the next kennel, and I
thought they’d have strangled themselves a-trying to get at one another, and so I had to separate
them.”

“Will it be safe to let him loose?” asked Stubbs.

“No fear; he will never go near the other while he’s loose and the other one chained up; besides, he’ll
be took up with seeing you, he will.”

It was very pleasant to the feelings of Stubbs that his dog knew him, which he evidently did, for he
danced on his hind-legs, and wagged his tail, and whimpered, and did all that a bull-terrier can do in
the way of smiling, when his proprietor approached for the purpose of freeing him from his chain.
Their interviews were not as frequent as either dog or boy would have desired, but then they were
very pleasant, for they brought the former a short spell of liberty, a meal of biscuit or paunch, and
sometimes—oh, ecstasy!—the worrying of a rat, while Stubbs enjoyed the sense of proprietorship,
and the knowledge that he was doing what was forbidden. He had dreams of leaving school and
taking Topper home with him, and owning him as his friend before all the world, and he talked to
Topper of that happy prospect, and Topper really quite seemed to understand that Stubbs was his
master, who had paid money for him, and was now put to considerable expense for his board and
lodging, let alone the danger he ran in coming to visit him. To an outsider, calmly reflecting, it did
not seem a very good bargain for Stubbs, but still very much better than that of Perry, his friend and
present companion, who kept a hawk, and vainly endeavoured to teach the bird to know him and
perch on his wrist. But Perry was fond of hawks, and much regretted that the days were gone by when
hawking was a favourite pastime.

The other two visitors at Slam’s that evening were Saurin and Edwards. Edwards had never been there
before, and consequently his feelings were curiously compounded of fear and pleasurable expectation.
He had looked from a distance at the place, the entrance to which was so sternly forbidden, and
imagined all sorts of delightful wickedness—how delightful or why wicked he had no idea—going on
inside. He was considerably disappointed to find himself in a dirty yard full of kennels to which dogs
of all sorts and sizes were attached, none of whom looked as if it would be safe to pat them. There
were a good many pigeons flying about, but he did not care for pigeons except in a pie. Perry’s hawk
was only interesting to Perry. There was a monkey on a pole in a corner, but he was a melancholy
monkey, who did nothing but raise and lower his eyebrows.

“Does the gentleman want a dawg?” asked Slam.

“He will see,” replied Saurin; “if there is a real good one that takes his fancy he may buy him. It’s all
right; he’s a friend of mine. Have you got that tobacco for me?”

“To be sure; you will find it in your drawer.”

Saurin went to a little wooden outhouse which contained a table, a chest of drawers, a cask of dog-
biscuits, cages of rats, and other miscellaneous articles, and opening a locker which seemed to be
appropriated to him, he took out a meerschaum pipe and a tobacco-pouch, and came out presently,
emitting columns of blue fragrant smoke from his mouth. Edwards looked at his friend with increased
respect, the idea of being intimate with a fellow who could smoke like that made him feel an inch
taller.

“I think it’s beginning to colour, eh?” asked Saurin.

“Beautifully, I should say,” replied Edwards.

“Won’t you try?”

“Thanks; I think I should rather like,” said Edwards, who began to feel ambitious, “but I have not got
anything to smoke.”

“Oh, Slam will let you have a pipe, or a cigar if you like it better.”

Edwards, calling to mind that cigars smelt nicer than pipes, thought he should prefer one.

“Slam, my friend wants a cigar.”

“Well, sir, as you know, I can’t sell such things without a licence; but if the gent likes to have a few
rats for one of the dawgs to show a bit of sport, I’ll give him a cigar with pleasure. It’s sixpence for
half a dozen.”

“And, by the by, Edwards, it is usual to stand some beer to pay your footing. A couple of quarts of
sixpenny will do.”

“That will make eighteenpence altogether,” responded Edwards cheerfully, producing that sum.

“I’ll send out for the beer at once,” said Mr Slam, taking the money and going towards the house.

W here he sent to is a mystery, for there was no public-house within a mile, and yet the can of beer
arrived in about five minutes. It is much to be feared that Slam set the excise law at defiance when
he felt perfectly safe from being informed against.

“Rats for Topper!” exclaimed Stubbs. “Oh, I say, Edwards, you are a brick, you know. I have been hard
up lately, and he has not had a rat for ever so long. You won’t mind my letting them out for him, will
you? You see, I should like him to think it was I who gave him the treat, if you don’t mind.”

Edwards had no objection to become a party to this innocent deception, and the cage of rats was
brought out from some mysterious place where there was an unlimited supply of those vermin.
W hereupon every individual dog in the establishment went off his head with excitement, and began
barking and tearing at his chain in a manner to soften the hardest heart. That rats should be so near
and yet so far! The building, which was once a stable, had been fitted up expressly as an arena,
where dogs might exhibit their prowess, and thither the cage was now carried by Stubbs, Topper
going almost the whole way on his hind-legs, with his nose close to the wires. Considering the
amount of excitement the entertainment did not last long; the rats were turned out into the arena,
where Topper pounced upon them one after the other with a nip and a shake which was at once fatal.
In a couple of minutes there were six fewer rats in the world, and Topper was extremely anxious to
diminish the number still further. Doctor Johnson, the compiler of the dictionary, said he had never in
his life had as many peaches and nectarines as he could eat, and that was Topper’s feelings with
regard to rats. Edwards did not enjoy the spectacle quite as much as he felt that he ought. Besides,
he was engaged in desperate efforts to light his cigar. Match after match did he burn, sucking away
all the time like a leech, but no smoke came into his mouth.

“Let us go into the orchard and finish the beer,” said Saurin.

The orchard was surrounded by so thick a hedge that it was just as private as the yard. A cobby horse
was cropping the grass, an ungroomed, untrimmed animal, very much better than he looked, his
master, for reasons of his own, being as anxious to disguise his merits as most proprietors of the
noble animal are to enhance them as much as possible. There were possibilities of recreation here,
though they were somewhat of a low order. Quoits hung up on several large nails driven into a wall,
and there was a covered skittle alley. For there were a good many small farmers of the class just
above that of the a labourer in the neighbourhood, and some of them frequented Slam’s, and were
partial to skittles.

The four boys and the proprietor of the establishment seated themselves on benches in this orchard
and gulped the beer.

“Your cigar does not seem to draw well,” said Saurin.

“No,” replied Edwards; “I can’t think what is the matter with it; I never smoked a cigar like this
before.”

Which was perfectly true, as it was the first he had ever put into his mouth.

“Let me look at it. W hy, you have not bitten the end off! You might as well expect smoke to go up a
chimney that is bricked up at the top. Here, I’ll cut it for you with my penknife; now you will find it go
all right. What a row that hawk of yours makes, Perry!”

“Yes, he ought to be hooded, you know. Hateful times we live in, don’t we! How jolly it must have
been when education meant learning to ride, fly a hawk, train a hound, shoot with the bow, and use
the sword and buckler, instead of mugging at abominable lessons.”

“Right you are, sir,” said Mr Slam; “why, even when I was a lad a fight or a bit of cocking could be
brought off without much trouble, but nowadays the beaks and perlice are that prying and interfering
there’s no chance hardly. And as for them times Mr Perry was speaking of, why, I’ve heard tell that
the princes and all the nobs used to go to see a prize-fight in a big building all comfortable, just as
they goes now to a theayter. And every parish had to find a bull or a bear to be bated every Sunday.
Ah! them was the good old times, them was.”

Edwards did not find his cigar very nice. The smoke got down his throat and made him cough till his
eyes watered, and the taste was not so pleasant as the smell. However, Saurin seemed to like it, so
there must be some pleasure about it if he only persevered.

He laboured under a delusion here, for Saurin would rather not have smoked, as a matter of fact,
though he had a great object in view, the colouring of his pipe, which supported him. His real motive
in this, as in all other matters, was vanity. Other boys would admire him for smoking like a full-grown
man, and so he smoked. He would never have done it alone, without anyone to see him, being too
fond of himself to persevere in anything he did not like out of whim, or for the sake of some possible
future gratification, of the reality of which he was not very well assured.

“Did you ever play at quoits, Edwards?” asked Saurin presently.

“Yes, I have played at home; we have some.”

“Suppose we have a game, then. W hy, hulloa, how pale you look! don’t smoke any more of that
cigar.”

“I do fee—feel a little queer,” said Edwards, who certainly did not exaggerate his sensations. A cold
sweat burst out on his forehead, his hands were moist and clammy, and though it was a warm
evening he shivered from head to foot, while he had a violent pain in his stomach which prevented his
standing upright.

“Come, man alive, don’t give way. We must be getting back soon,” said Saurin, who was rather
dismayed at the idea of taking his friend to his tutor’s in that condition, and the consequent risk of
drawing suspicion on himself. “Would not a drop of brandy be a good thing, Slam?”

“Well, no, not in this here case,” said Slam. “The missus shall mix him a little mustard and warm
water; that’s what he wants.”

“You are sure it’s only the cigar,” groaned Edwards. “I am not poisoned or anything?”

“Poisoned! how can you be? You have taken nothing but the beer, and we have all drunk that. No, it’s
the tobacco; it always makes fellows rather seedy at first, and I expect you swallowed a lot of the
smoke.”

“I did.”

“Well, then, drink this and you will be all right presently.”

Edwards took the emetic, which had the effect peculiar to that description of beverage. It was not a
pleasant one; indeed, he thought he was going to die; but after a while the worst symptoms passed
off, and he was able to walk home.

Saurin and Edwards lodged at the same tutors, and they went up to the room of the latter without
attracting attention. Here Edwards, under the other’s directions, washed his face, cleaned his teeth,
changed his jacket and neck-tie, and put some scented pomatum on his hair, and then lay down on
his bed till the supper-bell should ring.

“I shall not be able to eat,” he remonstrated. “Do you think I need go down?”

“Oh, yes; come and have a try, or else it will excite suspicion. You would have to show at prayers
directly afterwards, you know, so it will not make much difference. You have nothing to do with old
Cookson between this and supper—no exercise or anything?”

“No, thank goodness!”

“That’s all right. You have a good hour for a nap, and your head will be better then. I must go and
sweeten myself now.”

I regret to say that “old Cookson” was the shockingly disrespectful way in which this flagitious youth
spoke of his reverend and learned tutor.

Chapter Three.

Tom Buller.

Weston College was a polishing-up establishment. Boys were not admitted under the age of fourteen,
or unless they showed a certain proficiency in Greek and Latin, in the first book of Euclid, in
arithmetic and algebra up to simple equations. And the entrance examination, mind you, was no
farce. If a candidate was not well grounded they would not have him; and it was necessary to be
particular, because the first or lowest form assumed a certain amount of knowledge in the
commencement of that course which proposed to land the neophyte in the Indian Civil Service, the
army, or a good scholarship at one of the universities.

Though fourteen was the age of possible admission, very few boys were qualified until they were at
least a year older, and consequently there was no organised system of fagging, and flogging was a
very rare and extreme measure; but otherwise the system somewhat resembled that of the large
public schools. The head-master and three other masters each had a house full of boarders, whose
preparation of lessons on certain subjects he superintended; and every boy had a separate
apartment, which was his study and bedroom.

It was an expensive school, and the discipline of Dr Jolliffe was more lax than many parents and
guardians quite liked; and yet few of the boys who went there were rich. It was very rarely, that is,
that one of them had not to make his own way in the world. And the number, which was limited, was
always complete. For results speak for themselves, and the examination lists showed triumphant
successes for Weston. It is true that if they only took boys of considerable proficiency, and got rid of
all who made no progress, they might be expected to show a good average; but then, on the other
hand, there was no cramming, and every encouragement was given to healthy athletic exercise. Three
or four years were taken to do the work which is too often jammed into a few months. That was the
secret; and, though of course there were failures, it answered well on the whole.

This is an explanatory digression, just to let you know what sort of stage our characters are acting
upon.

It was Saturday afternoon, and a half-holiday, and there was only one boy left in Dr Jolliffe’s house.
His name was Buller, and he was neither sick nor under punishment. His window was wide open, for it
was very hot and stuffy in his little room, into which the sun poured, and on the other side of a lane
which ran underneath was the cricket-field, from which the thud of balls struck by the bat, voices, and
laughter resounded in a way to tempt any fellow out of his hole. But there he stuck with his elbows
on the table and his head in his hands, forcing himself to concentrate his attention upon a book which
lay open before him.

“Because a divided by b equals c divided by d,” he murmured, “the first quotients m m are equal. Yes,
I see that; again, since a divided by b equals m plus x divided by b, and c divided by d equals m plus
r divided by d, hum, hum, why, in the name of all that’s blue—oh, yes! I see. But then—oh, a
thousand blisters on the idiot who invented this rot! But I won’t be licked.”

And he began again and again, sticking to it for another half-hour, when he suddenly cried out, “I
have it! W hat a double-distilled ass I am! Of course it is simple enough. If a divided by b equals c
divided by d, and a and b be prime to each other, c and d are equimultiples of a and b. Of course they
are; how could they be anything else? The other fellows saw it at once, no doubt. W hat a lot of
trouble it gives one to be a fool! Now, I’ll go and practise bowling.”

Buller was no fool; indeed he would not have thought himself one if he had been; but he was slow at
everything—learning, games, accomplishments—though he had this compensation, no slight one
either, that when he had once mastered a thing he had got it for ever. His school-fellows called him a
duffer, but it did not vex him in the least, for he considered it a mere statement of a patent fact, and
was no more offended than if they had said that he had two legs. But he had a strong belief that
perseverance, sticking, he called it, could make up in a great measure for want of natural ability. The
fable of the hare and tortoise had given him great encouragement, and, finding in practice that he
passed boys who had far more brilliant parts than himself, he never gave way to despair, however
hopeless the task before him might seem.

His ambition—never expressed, however, to anyone—was to get into the eleven. Had it been known it
would have been thought the very height of absurdity, and have become such a standing joke that its
realisation would have been rendered well nigh impossible. It proved that Buller had sound sense
that he was able to see this. He did not much expect to succeed, but he meant to try all he knew
ever since the day he was called “old butter-fingers” in a game in which he showed especial
incapacity to catch the ball. He began by mastering that; whenever he could he got fellows to give
him catches. He practised throwing the ball up in the air and catching it again. W hen he went home
for the holidays he would carry a tennis-ball in his pocket, and take every opportunity of throwing it
against a wall and taking it at the rebound with both hands, with the right hand, and with the left. At
last he got quite dexterous—and sinistrous, too, for that matter.

But the mere fact of being able to manipulate the ball smartly, though it is of supreme importance in
cricket, would never gain him admission into the eleven of his house, let alone that of the school. For
that, as he well knew, he must cultivate a speciality, and he decided upon bowling. W icket-keeping
could only be practised in a regular game, and no side would agree to let him fill the post—it was not
likely. Batting everyone wanted to practise, and it would be very rarely that he would be able to get a

good bowler to bowl for him. There was a professional, indeed, who was always in the cricket-fields
during the season, but his services were generally in request, and, besides, they were expensive, and
Tom Buller had not much pocket-money. But there was almost always some fellow who was glad to
get balls given to him, and, if not, you can set a stump up in front of a net and bowl at that.

To have worked all this out in his mind did not look like lack of intelligence or observation, and to act
upon it steadily, without saying a word about it to anybody, showed considerable steadfastness and
resolution. He now put his algebra and papers into his bureau, took out his cricket-ball and ran down-
stairs and round to the fields. At first it seemed as if he would be obliged to have recourse to his
solitary stump, for, it being the Saturday half-holiday, there were two matches going on, and those
present not taking part in them were playing lawn-tennis. But presently he espied Robarts, who had
been in and out again in the game he was engaged in, and was now waiting for the innings of his
side to be over, standing in front of a net, bat in hand, with two boys bowling to him.

“May I give you a ball, Robarts?” he asked.

“Of course you may, Buller; the more the merrier,” was the reply; “only, if you are so wide as to miss
the net, you must go after the ball yourself.” And Robarts raised his bat, prepared for a good swipe if
the ball came within reach, which he did not much expect.

Buller measured his distance, took a short run, and sent the ball in with the energy begotten of long
mugging at algebra on a fine afternoon. Every muscle in his body seemed to long for violent exertion;
the pent-up strength in him, like steam, demanded an outlet, and, with his hand rather higher than
the shoulder, he sent the ball in with a will.

“By Jove! that was straight enough, and a hot one too!” exclaimed Robarts, who had only just
managed to block it. “It made my hands tingle.”

The two others delivered their balls, which were hit away right and left, and then Buller came again
with another which had to be blocked. The other bowlers who had been playing, and were going in
again presently, were glad to stop and leave Buller to work away alone, which he did in a deliberate,
determined manner, proving that his first attempts were not chance shots. Twice he sent the wickets
down, and once, when the ball was driven back to him, he caught it with the left hand, high up.

“Well,” said Robarts when he was called away to go and field, “and you are the fellow they called a
duffer! Why, it is like magic! Were you playing dark last year, or what?”

“No; but I have been practising.”

“You have practised to some purpose, then. If you could only vary your bowling a little more you
would be very dangerous. You see, if you always send the same sort of ball, a fellow knows how to
meet it after a bit.”

Robarts as an all-round player was only reckoned inferior to Crawley, and his words of approval were
very gratifying to Buller, who felt himself a step nearer one particular goal. He did not indulge in
daydreams, however, not being of an imaginative disposition. The actual difficulty which he had to
master at the time took up all his thoughts and energies, and the distant object to be attained,
though never absolutely lost sight of, was never dwelt upon or brooded over.

He at once looked about for someone else to bowl for, and found his particular chum, Penryhn, who,
after fagging out through the heat of the day, had gone to the wicket with the sun in his eyes, and
been clean bowled the first ball.

“Will you really bowl for me?” he said eagerly in reply to Buller’s offer. “What a good fellow you are!”

“W hy? for doing what I want? That is laying in a stock of good works cheap. You won’t mind a few
wides, I hope; Robarts says there is too great a sameness about my bowling, so I want to practise
twisters and shooters. You won’t mind if I bowl at your legs?”

“Not a bit; ignis via—fire away.”

The necessity for violent exertion had been taken out of Buller, indeed it was now oozing away from
every pore of his skin. So he did not try fast bowling, except now and then when he attempted to put
in a shooter, but concentrated his attention principally upon placing his ball, or on pitching it to leg
with an inward twist towards the wicket. He constantly failed; sent easy ones which were hit about to
the peril of neighbouring players; cut Penryhn over once on the knee-cap and once on the ankle. But
he never once delivered the ball carelessly, or without a definite object. And when his arm got so
tired that his mind could no longer direct it, he left off and Penryhn bowled in turn to him, his great
object then being to keep an upright bat rather than to hit.

“I’ll tell you what, Tom, you have improved in your cricket awfully,” said Penryhn as they strolled back
in the dusk. “Why, you took Robarts’ wickets twice.”

“Yes, but I should not have done it in a game; fellows step out and hit recklessly in practice.”

“No matter for that; you are quite a different bowler from what you were.”

“The fact is it takes me all my time to learn to do what comes to other fellows naturally.”

“That’s a bit too deep for me; some fellows can do one thing easily and others another, and every
fellow has to work hard to learn those things which belong, as it were, to the other fellows. There are
chaps, I suppose, like the Admirable Crichton, who are born good all round, and can play the fiddle,
polish off Euclid, ride, shoot, lick anyone at any game, all without the slightest trouble, but one does
not come across them often, thank goodness. I say, do you know what genius is?”

“Not exactly; that is, I could not define it.”

“Well, I have heard my father say that some very clever chap has said that it is ‘an infinite capacity
for taking pains,’ and if that’s true, by Jove, you must be a genius, Tom!”

And they both burst out laughing at the notion, and went in and changed their flannels. And Buller lit
his candle and mugged at a German exercise till the supper-bell rang.

Half-holidays did not necessarily preclude work in the tutor’s pupil-rooms, which was preparatory to
that in school, though practically the hours of recreation were never interfered with in fine weather.
But after the hour of “All In,” as the local phrase went, when the roll was called, and every boy had
to be in for the night, an hour which varied with the time of the year, it was different. And on this
Saturday evening Mr Cookson had some arrears of Historical Theme correction to make up. For since
history plays a considerable part in modern competitive examinations, every boy had to read up a
certain portion of some standard work every week, and write a theme upon it, without the book, in
the pupil-room. This theme was looked over with him by his tutor before being sent in to the head-
master, and if it did not reach a certain standard it was torn up, and he had to read the subject again
and write another one. Edwards was one of the essayists whose paper had not yet been examined,
and he stood at this tutor’s elbow while he read it over. “‘After he had been some years in England Sir
Elijah Impey was tried by Doctors’ Commons.’” “House of Commons, boy,” said Mr Cookson, “people
are not impeached at Doctors’ Commons, that’s where wills are proved,” and he made a correction,
—“‘and proved he hadn’t murdered the rajah. And so Sir Philip Francis, the author of a book called
Junius, the writer of which was never discovered,’”—“why, that’s a bull;” Mr Cookson could not help
chuckling as he made a dash and a correction,—“‘and deaf Burke,’”—“‘I never heard that he was deaf
—oh, that was another man, a prize-fighter, ho, ho, ho, ahem!’”—“‘and Burke were very much
ashamed of themselves, and were hissed, and never alluded to the subject, from which originated the
phrase of “burking the question,”’”—“Pooh, pooh, never make shots like that:”—“‘and Sir Elijah Impey
was found Not Guilty, and all his property was taken from him to pay the lawyers with.’” “Well, well,
it’s not so bad,” said Mr Cookson, signing his name at the bottom of the last page. “And now,
Edwards,” he added, turning and looking the boy straight in the eyes, “I have a good mind to have
you flogged.”

“Me, sir!” exclaimed Edwards, turning pale; “what for, sir?”

“Doctor Jolliffe does not flog for many things, but there are certain offences he never fails to visit
with the utmost severity. Smoking is one of them.”

“I assure you, sir, I have not—”

“Lying is another, so do not finish your sentence. I can smell the stale tobacco.”

And indeed Edwards was wearing the jacket in which he had indulged in that emetical luxury, his first
cigar, two evenings previously.

“But really, sir, it is no lie,” he urged; “I have not been smoking, and I cannot tell where the smell
comes from, unless it is my jacket, which I wore in the holidays, when I sat in the room with my
father when he was having his cigar sometimes, and which has been in my box till the other day. I
am certain it cannot be my breath or anything else.”

“Come nearer; no, your breath and hair are free from the taint. Well, it may be as you say, and I am
loth to suspect you of falsehood. But listen to me, my boy; I am not assuming that you have been
smoking, mind, but only, as we are on the subject, that you might do so. It may seem very arbitrary
that the rules against it are so very severe, considering how general the practice is, but they are wise
for all that. However harmless it may be for those who have come to their full growth, smoking
tobacco is certainly very injurious to lads who are not matured. And indeed until the habit is acquired
—it affects the digestion and the memory of every one. Now, in these days of competitive
examinations, when every young fellow on entering life has to struggle to get his foot on the first
rung of the ladder, and all his future prospects depend on his doing better than others, how
inexpressibly silly it is for him to handicap himself needlessly by taking a narcotic which confuses his
brain and impairs his memory, and which affords him no pleasure whatever. I treat you as a rational
being, and appeal to your common sense, and speak as your friend. Now, go.”

Edwards was not such a ready liar as you may think him, though he certainly prevaricated. He had
worn that jacket in his father’s smoking-room, and it had lain in his box during the early part of the

term. He had not smoked again since the occasion commemorated, and that was two days previously,
and he persuaded himself that his tutor’s question applied to that day. But he knew in his heart that
it didn’t, and with the kind tones of his tutor’s voice ringing in his ears he felt as if he ought to be
kicked.

But when he went up to his room he found Saurin there, and any feelings of self-reproach he had had
soon melted away.

“What’s up, now?” asked his friend. “You look as if you had seen a ghost.”

“I nearly got into an awful row, I can tell you!” replied Edwards. “My tutor smelt my jacket of smoke
while he was correcting my theme.”

“By Jove! And how did you get out of it?”

“I told him I had worn the jacket in my father’s smoking-room.”

“Ha, ha, ha! that was a good un. Well done, old fellow! I did not think you had so much presence of
mind. You will make your way yet.”

Edwards was on the point of protesting that what he said was the fact, but his guide, philosopher,
and friend seemed so much pleased with the ingenuity of his plea that he could not bear to rob
himself of the credit of it, and so he looked as knowing as he conveniently could, and chuckled, taking
a pride in what five minutes before he was ashamed of.

“That’s the worst of cigar-smoking, the smell clings so to the clothes and hair. Now, a pipe is much
easier to get sweet again after, unless, of course, you carry it about in your pocket. Wore the jacket
in your father’s smoking-room about a month ago! and old Cookson was soft enough to swallow that.
How old Slam would chuckle! I must tell him.”

“Do you know, I am not quite certain that my tutor did altogether believe that I had not been
smoking,” said Edwards, his conscience stirring again a little bit now that he saw the man who had
spoken so kindly to him incurring the terrible risk of forfeiting Saurin’s esteem through a false
imputation of too great credulity. “You see, he’s a good-natured chap, and I think he wanted to
believe if he could, and as my hair and breath did not smell, he gave me the benefit of the doubt.”

“Thought it would bring discredit on his house if it were known to contain a monster who smoked
tobacco,” said Saurin, “and so was glad to pretend to believe the papa-smoking-room story. Well, it is
possible; old Cookson may not be so great a fool as he looks. Anyhow, I am glad for your sake that
he did not report you; old Jolliffe would not have been humbugged. He would have said, ‘Your jacket
stinks of tobacco, and jackets don’t smoke of themselves.’ And you would have got it hot, old fellow,
for Jolliffe is mad against smoking.”

Chapter Four.

An Outside Professor.

Saurin’s master passion of vanity caused him to be fond of low company. This may sound odd to
some, because many vain people are sycophants, who will do anything to be seen in the company of
persons of title or high social position, and who cut the acquaintance of old friends, and even
benefactors when they dare and can do without them, when they are of inferior grade. These are
contented to shine wit...